


Amnesty

by acerbitas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, PTSD, Past Torture, Past Violence, Reek is a gleam in Ramsay's eye, Sex, Skinner does a bad thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1809133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/pseuds/acerbitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose Bolton is gone for two weeks on a political mission at the Freys'. Ramsay is on a "boar" hunt with his dogs for the next few nights. Left with a need to satiate his sadism, Skinner tells Theon that the Boltons deem it necessary to allow the captive better treatment. Problem is...Ramsay never said that at all, not even as a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rating may change for the worse, as well as the archive warnings.

Skinner grinned as he leapt down the stairs to the Dreadfort dungeons, taking three stairs at a time. This was his chance. His _big_ chance. Skinner hadn’t gotten to flay anyone in the last three moons, and before that, he couldn’t even remember the last time. Yet Ramsay had gone off on a “boar hunt”--the whole castle knew what he’d really be hunting, though--and had the nerve to not invite Skinner. It would have been one thing if Roose had been around: the two of them together on a hunt would raise too much suspicion. But the older Lord Bolton was also gone, having embarked on a two-week-long business mission with the Freys. Ramsay had excluded Skinner just to spite him; there was no way to hide it.

Well, now, Skinner would return the insult by having some fun with Ramsay’s new pet. Ramsay would be brought down a peg for once in his life,  and he would never believe the Greyjoy rat over his own right-hand man. Skinner would never get caught, and if Ramsay got angry enough, maybe he would even get to flay the “prince” again.

Skinner steeled himself and pushed the cell door open. The stinking man--slicked with sweat, piss and a suspiciously milky-looking substance--hung from the rack, panting, eyes half-lidded shut. He was naked; his tattered britches had been cut off, and now lay discarded in a pile at the base of his torture device. Ramsay probably cut them off, or else another of the Boys had.

Despite his obvious power disadvantage, Theon had the nerve to spit in Skinner’s general direction. “Fuck you,” he muttered, but the words were lost in pained, rasping wheezes.

On any other day, Skinner would have knocked the traitor’s teeth in before stripping off a few inches of flesh, but today he had to rein himself in. Today, he had to wait a bit longer, had to play the game, but the rewards would be greater. Oh, so much greater.

Skinner was not a master at the game like Ramsay, and he wasn’t the best at waiting.  But if he could just do this one thing, oh, Ramsay’s return would be priceless.

“I don’t come to hurt you, my friend.” Skinner tried to keep his voice calm and even, but found it hard to not laugh. He forced the grin down from the corners of his mouth. “I come with good news. It seems Lord Roose Bolton has disapproved of your conditions here. He plans to give his bastard a severe rebuking when he comes home from his little ‘hunt,’ but for now, Roose demands you have better treatment.”  Skinner considered, then congratulated himself on his own brilliance.  “Lord Bolton wants you to enjoy Lord Ramsay’s chambers.”

In truth, Roose had given no such order, and Ramsay had never suggested such a game. But Theon’s eyes slowly widened, and his gaze moved from the floor to Skinner’s face. He believed. Skinner just had to play the charade, and this would turn out glorious. Very, very glorious.

When Skinner cut Theon down, he made an effort to catch him and let him slip to the floor.   _Enjoy your little taste of hospitality,_ Skinner thought.   _I bet Ramsay will let me flay your balls for this._ On top of him Theon panted; his ragged, dry breaths reminded Skinner of a woman near death.  That reminded him sourly of Ramsay’s desertion.

“I apologize about the state of your appearance.”  Skinner tried to sound sincere, but he was not as good as Ramsay at that game.  He hoped the idiotic thing was too proud and stupid to notice the excitement spilling from his voice.  “I also apologize about my own...role in your experiences so far.”

The plaything, who was still convinced he was not a plaything, smelled terrible.  His lips were parched, his nose was dripping blood, and his muscles trembled uselessly from hanging on the rack.

“Get me a bath.  Get me a nice bath far away from this shithole.”  The Ironborn prisoner flopped off of Skinner onto his back, trying to mask a grimace of pain.  “I’m not your friend: I’m a prince.  And don’t touch me again.”

“I’m not a servant--” Skinner began with a snap, before he realized his whole plan might be ruined.  He contented himself with kicking the base of the rack: hard.  “...As soon as you are well enough to walk, my prince, I’ll escort you.”

“I need a selection of clothing for when I am properly bathed.  I unfortunately need to see your maester, thanks to your bastard.  And after that I would like a whore.  Two whores.  I’m sure that will be easy enough.”

Theon turned to Skinner, eyebrows raised.  The bastard was still trembling on the ground next to his own shit, and he was _smirking._ Skinner decided then that he hated Theon Greyjoy, but that was a bearable affliction.  It was more fun to flay people he hated, anyway.

“You know where to find two whores, I presume?  It does seem like a service you’d require.”  The traitor’s grin widened, and then, he began to laugh.

Skinner’s head was pounding, and he almost kicked the chuckling Greyjoy in the teeth.   _Fuck it,_ he nearly decided, _I’ll just do shit to him that doesn't leave a mark.  I’ll waterboard him until the Drowned God makes him king of the fucking sea._

“Why am I still naked?” Theon asked querulously.  “You don’t expect me to walk out of here uncovered?”

“...No,” Skinner managed.  Oh, but did he wish he could make the fool.  Skinner was beginning to suspect that Theon was so proud he wouldn’t get the jape even if Skinner made him walk around naked.

Skinner couldn’t take that chance, though.  He made an about-face and stomped up the stairs, fists clenched so tight they were blotched red and white.   _I’ll just get him some shabby clothes and let him loose in Ramsay’s room, and then I’ll fuck that girl in the dungeon.  Yeah, that’ll would this whole thing much better._

Making his way into the servant’s quarters, Skinner demanded some pants and a shirt off of a terrified serving boy.  When he returned, Theon was standing up and leaning against the wall.  He glowered at Skinner and snatched the clothing.

“This is all you could find?” he asked, doubtfully.

“...Like I said, I’m not a servant.  But let me take you to Lord Ramsay’s room, my prince.  There you can eat, drink, and wear whatever you find pleasing.”

The little shit was grinning again, but Skinner noticed the way he’d moved as far away from the cross as possible.   _He’s spooked,_ Skinner thought, gleefully.

They trundled up the dungeon steps together, Theon swearing and stumbling because of his newly crippled foot.   _I'm not sure_ _if Ramsay will let him survive after this.  If not, it’s too bad Reek’s not around anymore._

Skinner would have enjoyed seeing that mess play out on the dungeon floor. But, he reminded himself, what would unfold when Ramsay returned would be even better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon enjoys the amenities of Ramsay's chambers: new finery, a luxurious bath, the best food in the kitchens, and the "warmth" of Ramsay's bedwarmer, Miranda.

When Theon entered his torturer’s chambers, nausea enveloped him.  Acid bubbled up from his stomach like poison.  The first thing Theon did was slam the door in Skinner’s ugly face.  Then he doubled over, hand over his mouth to stifle his sobs.  

Who knew if Skinner was still outside?  Who knew what was really happening?  Not Theon.  His initial thrill had faded into terror, into a shaky sense that something was wrong.  The former prisoner considered running, even fighting.  But in truth, he could barely stand.  Instead, he surveyed his new chambers warily, like a cornered deer.

Animal pelts covered Ramsay’s bed, a cheerful fire flickered across the room, and laying on Ramsay’s chair were gloves that looked like they’d been made out of human skin.  They were a patchwork of Ramsay’s handiwork.

It was those horrific gloves that had provoked his nausea--that and nothing else.  At least, that was what he told himself.  His four-fingered hand quivered, but he forced himself to pick up the gloves anyway, and toss them into the fire.  There.  Much better.  Slipping out of the foul clothes Skinner had brought him, he settled into the nicest looking chair--an oak, plush creation--and leaned back.  His fingers closed on the armrests.

The fire crackled, and a rancid smell crept towards him like a wolf in the dark.   _Smiler,_ Theon realised, knuckles turning white.   _Those little boys._ Leaping from his chair and throwing a window open, he whirled in frustration and went to examine Ramsay’s closet for a pleasant distraction.

Unfortunately Ramsay had bad taste.  Theon had to dismiss nearly all the garish pink accessories at once.  His own body smelled foul, fouler than anything in the room, and now that he was out of his cell, it somehow frightened him.   _I shouldn’t be frightened,_ he admonished himself, even as his hands still shook.   _Soon I’ll be on a boat home._

“Where are those servants with my bath?” he snapped at nothing.   _Why is everything in this castle awful?_ Tearfully he threw some of the pink garments into the fire, but he refused to acknowledge that his eyes were wet.

 _The fire is smokey.  It’s irritating my eyes._ Theon rubbed them until all evidence of tears was gone.  “I’ll have to have some new garments made for my trip home.”   _They’ve realized they made a huge mistake, that’s all.  I bet my ransom is coming, even now._ He tried to pretend that talking to himself was normal.

 _They kept me in the dark, alone._ But it was of no consequence.  He was an Ironborn, heir to Pyke, and one day he’d rain fire down on this miserable castle.  A lot sooner, Ramsay would either be punished or dead.  The dark didn’t matter, he told himself firmly, not anymore.

Theon pulled on a black pair of britches that had a brilliant stitching around the waist.  They were too big; they always would have been, but they were worse now.  He couldn’t keep them on his waist.  The former prisoner’s stomach was pinched and sore.  The feeling had started out unbearable, but it had become a companion in the darkness, as much as pain and fear.

Trembling he removed them, Theon gritted his teeth as he realized he’d probably have the same problem with all of Ramsay’s clothes, terrible or no.   _Why would they not provide me with decent attire?  Attire of my house?_ His stomach was now both pinched and queasy.   _They should bring me some food.  Some wine…_

With trepidation Theon grabbed one of the few tunics that didn’t have a nauseating flayed man sewed on the front.  It hung past his knees, long, big, and awkward.  When he tried to put on a belt, his heart leapt in terror.   _Ramsay wore this belt, when he visited me.  Tortured.  Tortured me._

The belt went into the fire too, and Theon stood in front of Ramsay’s closet fuming and disoriented, fighting an urge to scream.

 _The servants here are terrible,_ he thought.   _Or else this is all just some big jape._ Limping around the room, Theon searched for a weapon.  At first he couldn’t find any, but a dingy box revealed a bizarre collection of women’s jewelry.  Amongst the common, low-born rings and necklaces were flaying knives with dried blood still clinging to them.

Despite dry retching, Theon grabbed one of the flaying knives and slammed the box shut again.  Selecting another pair of britches, gray this time, Theon tugged them up and grunted as he tried to tighten them to the point they wouldn’t fall.   _I’ll demand clothes fitting for me.  I’ll...I’ll…_

Theon was suddenly tired beyond anything he could remember.  He slunk back to his chair and sat, waiting.   Two servants finally delivered him hot water, their faces pale and terrified in the sinking sunlight.  One of them had a new gash over his face.

“Get me some suitable clothes,” he told him.  “These are all too large.”

Neither of them said anything.  One inclined his head, eyes shining with terror.  Then both of them fled.

 _I don’t understand this awful place,_ Theon thought miserably.   _I want to go home._

The water stung the stump of his missing finger, and bit viciously into where the screw in his foot had been.  Theon scrubbed at the sticky white substance on his chest until his skin was pink and raw, trembling.  After that, he washed the blood off of his newfound weapon, scrubbing until it shone like new.  Theon couldn’t care less if it got rusty, as long as it worked.   _You know he likes to play tricks,_ something inside him whispered.   _He likes to pretend._

Theon ignored the voice, trembling.   _No,_ he told himself firmly.   _No.  I’m going home._ The Ironborn worked on his face, which was sweaty, grimy and covered in dirt and dried tears.

The bathwater had quickly turned the dark maroon of dried blood. He stood up out of the water and grabbed a thick, luxurious towel that was draped over a bedpost. Wrapping the blanket around himself, he called for the servants to come get rid of the old bathwater and bring him some new.

At first, nobody came, and Theon stood in his old, darkened water: waiting.  A strange itch pricked at his back, and then raced along his spine until he trembled.  When the servants did come, they were the same ones as before.  The cut one looked bedraggled, and had a hollow look in his eyes.  One was carrying a plain black tunic and breeches, which he laid on the bed.

Theon was no longer as afraid of them, but the clothing bearer regarded him with a suspicious sideways glance.  That made Theon get colder with trepidation. The servants exchanged nervous glances and left the room quickly--too quickly, as though they didn’t want to be seen being part of his hospitality.

 _Why do they fear me so?_ he wondered. Now alone, he kicked the towel away and sank back down into the fresh, clear bathwater. _It’s almost as though they think I would report them for bad service, or as though…_

The other thought was too disturbing, and Theon shoved it from his mind.

In his last bath, Theon had been focused on simply getting clean, but this time he experimented more with the soaps and potions around him. Two of them he quickly recognized as being Ramsay’s favorites.

They reminded him of his torment so much that he hurled them out the window, grinning in satisfaction as the window-glass shattered.   _I’ll get rid of him,_ he assured himself, _I’ll crush him out of me._ He tried to ignore how much his hands were trembling.

As for the other perfumes, he poured them into the tub, mixing a drop of each and enjoying the pleasure of each scent. Some of the potions made thick, foamy bubbles rise up from the water. It felt amazing. He added more of it, and more, until there was so much foam that it made the bathwater rise and slosh onto the carpet.

Then he noticed a fine razor - Ramsay’s finest, surely, made of fine steel with a golden handle. Theon shaved his excess facial hair, savoring the way his now smooth skin felt against his fingertips.  Then he hurled the razor out of the window, too.

Theon could have stayed in the bath forever.  It felt like the water had cleansed him of the horror, and even a piece of his shame.  But the water had grown cold. He got out and rifled through Ramsay’s clothes, opening various drawers and bins and tossing their contents onto the floor until he realized nothing would fit.

Like everything Ramsay wore-- _hulking, stupid Ramsay,_ he thought bitterly--the nightclothes were too large, even when he tried a belt.  He returned to the clothing on the bed, and was pleasantly surprised to find it well-made and comfortable.   _See?_ he told himself.   _You’re just paranoid.  Everything is fine, now._

For the first time since Theon had woken up in the Dreadfort, he felt clean, comfortable, and new.  He wanted food now, food to satisfy the pinch in his belly.  To kill it, and make sure it never came back to haunt him again.

He called for the servants, as strange as they were, and asked for as much roasted meat and wine as they could bring him.  What they were able to manage was confusingly measly, but it didn’t matter once it touched his tongue.  He savored each bite of pork. The wine was a dream.

Even though he’d failed to see the maester, the alcohol dulled the aches in his body, and slowed his pounding heart.  He only wished they’d brought him more.  In the safety of solitude, Theon licked his plate until nothing was left.  His stomach growled, even so.  Thrusting the plate aside, Theon glowered at the table.   _I want this to be over so I can go home._

Theon sat back his chair, shivering with the cold he had let into the room.  The bed looked so soft, so pleasant, but he trembled to think of sleeping in it, anyway.   _He slept in it,_ the Ironborn thought, cursing himself for being frightened of a bed.   _Who knows what else he did in it?  I...wish they would have given me a different room._ Clenching his fists, Theon bowed his head.   _Weak,_ he told himself, _it’s just a bed.  That’s it.  You fool._

Getting to his feet, Theon stomped towards the bed, to rid himself of his cowardace.  Just as he was pulling the covers back, the door opened softly.  Theon started, whirling around to meet his unexpected guest.

His visitor was a beautiful brunette.  At first Theon thought she was the promised whore, but only for a second.  Her eyes were wide with shock.  Taking a step backwards, she shook her head, and looked ready to flee.

“Wait!” he called to her, “I won’t hurt you.”   _Why would she think I would?_ he wondered, irritated.   _I’m not a barbarian._ “My lady.”

In his new clothes, with his body clean, with his teeth and hair brushed, Theon felt thousands of times more confident than he had mere hours ago, and his cock began to stiffen beneath his nightclothes.    _It’s been far too long._

“Where is Lord Ramsay?” she asked, voice tremulous.

“He’s on a hunt,” Theon told her, dismissively.   _Is she his bedwarmer?_ “When he gets back, he might be executed.”   _Well, I can always hope._

Her breath was coming out uneven, and her cheeks were pale.  “Oh?”  Her nipples were showing through her dress from the cool air, which was gusting through the broken windows.

“I’m sure you didn’t know,” Theon told her, sure she did, but too aroused to care.  “About all the awful things he did.  He tricked you if he made you bed him.”

“What happened?”  She sounded as petrified as somebody about to be put to death. Who are you?”

Theon ignored the first question, because he didn’t know.  “I’m Theon Greyjoy.  I’m the heir to Pyke.  They’ve set me free to return home.  I can protect you.”   _She’s just a woman,_ he thought, _and a bedwarmer at that.  Even if she knew, she’s only a woman._

“No, I knew nothing,” she agreed, too quickly.  She didn’t ask what Ramsay was supposed to have done.  She reached her hand out to grab the doorframe, wobbling.  “Oh, my Lord.  I didn’t know anything.  He was always so nice to me.  I would never want--”

“Of course not.”  Theon swallowed as his hands grew clammy with lust.   _If I take his woman, his woman, that’s…that will make me feel better._ He wasn’t sure if he believed that, but he’d spent so long without a woman.  No matter what, he’d feel a little better.

“Is this a trick?”

“What?”

“If this is a trick, he’ll hurt both of us.  You can’t tell.”

Theon’s stomach flopped.  “Why would it be a trick?  Tell what?”

She studied him, eyes sharp, discerning.  “If it’s a trick, you’re not in on it, are you?”

“...No,” Theon admitted. The sweat on his hands turned cold.

For what seemed an eternity, neither of them spoke; theirs was a silence of racing thoughts, paranoia, and desperation.

“My name is Miranda,” she finally whispered, shyly, playing with the bodice of her dress.  “Thank you for saying you’ll protect me, my lord.”

“I’m sure he frightened you.  I won’t let you get hurt.”  Inside, Theon laughed at himself; he was as useful as a blind dog.

She smiled then, with fake innocence and genuine relief.  “Thank you, my Lord.  I...I was so...scared of him.  You seem much kinder.” Her eyes traveled down to his crotch, eyeing his arousal.

Whoever she was, she was the first person to show warmth towards him in months.  “I’m glad you came, and found out from me.”

“Oh, me too,” Miranda purred.  “You are...Theon Greyjoy?  I heard they kept you in the dungeons?  Horrible.”

 _Of all the bloody things to mention!_ Theon’s arousal was full now; he could tell she wanted to fuck him, to tie herself to him instead of Ramsay, and he was willing.  

“Well, now they’ve realized their error, and seen it fit to treat me right.  Soon, I’m going back home.  I’m a prince.”

“...I would treat you right, my Lord,” Miranda suggested, glancing pointedly at the bulge in his breeches.  “You’ve been so kind.  You understand.”

Theon smirked.  Today was the best day he’d had in what seemed an eternity.

“Shall we see?”  He approached her, still smiling, all confidence and arousal.   _Getting his bedwarmer is much better than a whore, even two whores._ It felt good to be back.

“Oh, yes.”

Adrenaline surged through Theon.  He roughly grabbed Miranda and leaned into her, tongue probing into her mouth. She said nothing to him, but her lips and tongue moved to meet his in surprised, but eager, arousal.

It took mere seconds for Theon to pull Miranda into Ramsay’s room and shove her roughly onto the bed.  Crawling over her, he tugged off his shirt, ignoring an unfamiliar tug of anxiety.   _When they had me down there,_ he thought, _they forced me to be naked…they...they..._ Gritting his teeth, he pushed her dress up, and was unsurprised to find she was not clothed underneath.

Her legs wrapped fiercely around his back, and he kissed her again, hard.  Miranda finished tugging off her bodice, and Theon helped pulled her dress up over her head. Theon’s breath caught in his throat, then; he had not seen a naked woman since Winterfell.  She was beautiful.

For a moment, he felt like a boy again, clueless and stricken with uncertainty.  It was as if Ramsay had stripped parts of him away in the dungeons, hacking at his identity as surely as he did his flesh.  Then the moment passed.

Miranda’s began to moan as Theon sucked her tits, alternating between licking and biting them while his fingers found her clit.  He began to massage it, gently at first and then with more force. After a while he tugged at her, pulling her downwards; she understood.

The feel of her lips and tongue around his cock made him almost release his seed right then and there.   _It was too long,_ he thought, gripping the top of the bedframe and panting.   _So good._

By the time he entered her, both of them were panting.  As he thrust faster, harder, her moans and pleas for more grew louder.  Theon obliged.  By the end, she was so loud that anyone walking past would hear her screams.  He released his seed into her, shuddering with pleasure.  Elated, somehow _himself_ again, Theon rolled off Miranda and grinned.

 _Let them hear her,_ he thought, eyes drooping, breath slowing down.   _I’m free, and soon, I get to go home._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay comes home, and finds his room is not how he left it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acerbitas: I'm sorry this took so long to post! Amethyst_ink has been very busy and I haven't been in good shape healthwise, so it took us awhile to get this together. :) I hope you all enjoy it!

The first thing Ramsay noticed when he flung open the doors of the Great Hall was that the place was quiet. Too quiet. The chatter and banter of servants, and the prissy gossip of the ladies and the raucous laughter of his Boys were all the same when he approached the doors; but as soon as he opened them and entered, all voices dropped to hushed whispers.

Ramsay felt a nervous twine in his gut--some stupid anxiety about his leech-lord father, no doubt. He shoved it away and it channeled into indignation.

_How dare they not greet their lord with proper tidings?_

As he strode past his people, their eyes flickered over him and back to each other, exchanging pointed glances that were nowhere near the norm.

Ramsay tried to ignore him. He strode up the stairs to his chambers, kicking off his boots along the way. When he opened the door, his closets hung ajar. Clothes had been pulled from them, strewn across the floor. The window was broken. _What the fuck_? His window was _broken!_ As he crossed the room to examine it, he saw the bathtub in the corner, deflated suds still clinging to the sides, fragrant with a mix of his best perfumes. And two of them were missing.

Ramsay scanned the room, and the next thing he saw was the fireplace.

In it, embers still crackled, and spent logs hissed with smoke.  The faint smell of burning flesh came with it, and for once, Ramsay was not pleased by the smell.  Half-burned pieces of cloth hung from the logs, miserable and crisp.  Most of them were the colors of his house, or showed hints of the flayed man of Bolton.

Ramsay snarled, and whirled to face his closet, where his remaining clothing lay in disorganized heaps.  He saw that his box, _his box_ , the one that held the remains of his hunts, had been moved.  His head was pounding; the loose screw that held his anger in had already snapped.

 _I will flay every bit of skin from whoever did this.  I will make sure of it._ That thought didn’t calm him; he already looked like a _fool._ Roaring for his servants--the ones that weren’t still recovering from the last beating he’d given them--he knelt by the small chest and opened it.

At first he thought nothing was missing; he realized he was grinding his teeth and stopped.  Then he saw what was wrong.  One of his flaying knives was gone--he’d used it to carve one of the good ones up: a girl that had become a bitch.

Rising to his feet, he saw a shaking servant standing mutely by his table.  He focused in on the table instead of the servant, scanning it repeatedly for his gloves.  They were gone too.   _I need to go on a long hunt, and I just came back._ He was seeing blotchy spots of red, and for a moment, all he could hear was the pounding in his head; that drumbeat always drove him to violence.

He’d made those gloves out of his favorites, the ones he’d used for a bit, before killing, and the one or two who’d lasted the longest.  He felt _good_ about them, _affectionate,_ and now the final pieces of them were gone.  “Where are my gloves?” he snarled at the servant.

The servant squawked miserably; he was a thin, chicken-like man who stuttered too much.  “I-I f-found the...remains.  I-in the f-fire.”

“Why were they in the fire?”  Ramsay asked him slowly, carefully, but he was already imagining beating this one until he collapsed.  Scanning his room for further damage, his eyes stopped on the bed sheets.

The servant mumbled feebly that he didn’t know, that he hadn’t been here, because he’d still been recovering from “m-my lord’s j-just punishment.”  Ramsay had stopped listening at that point, because he’d looked over and re-examined his bed.  The sheets were crumbled, and from them emanated the unmistakable scent of sex.  Then he saw the wet spots, and the white remains, that proved what had happened between his furs.

“I think you’re going to be “recovering” again soon,” Ramsay growled.  “You and your little friends are going to clean this up.  If I don’t have new clothes, new sheets, and a clean room by nightfall I will beat you twice as hard.”

“Y-yes.  M’lord.”

At least the fool hadn’t tried to argue with him.  Still seething,  Ramsay thudded down the hall, heading to his study.  If his study was...was _contaminated_ too, he was going to kill somebody.  Maybe more than one person.  His father wasn’t back yet, so he could pull off another hunt.

 _Maybe_ pull of another hunt.  If he was calm, and collected, Ramsay knew he would have a better chance.  He’d be more cautious.  But he was burning up, as hot as a branding iron, and wanted release.

Then he saw her.  His little whore stopped dead in her tracks at the other end of the hallway, her hand clutching her throat.  Her eyes were round with terror, and she stood stupidly, frozen in place.

 _It was her,_ Ramsay thought, heart pounding with fury.   _She did it.  She fucked somebody in_ my _bed.  I’m going to hunt her and fuck her and skin her and--_

 Then she was running _to_ him, sobbing, her lip trembling and hands shaking.  Ramsay grabbed her and shook her, watching with pleasure as her teeth rattled in her skull.  “I’m going to _slaughter_ you,” he hissed.  “Do you understand, whore?”

“He made me do it!” she sobbed, one hand clutching her own hair.  “I didn’t want to.  He held one of your knives and-and he-he made me pretend I liked it.”

Ramsay flung her away from him, panting, uncertain.   _One of my knives was gone…_ “Who are you talking about?  If you’re lying, I’ll do a lot worse than slice you up.”

“That...that horrible prisoner.  The G-Greyjoy you captured.  Please, my Lord, please.”  Her makeup ran down her face in jagged black lines.

“He’s in the dungeon, you fool.”  Ramsay grabbed his whore by the hair, yanking her towards him until he could smell both perfume and sweat, sweat from fear.  He felt just a little better, a little _calmer,_ as he breathed it in.  “I’m going to gut you.”

“N-no, I swear.  He said your father let him out!”  She pointed towards his study, looking like she was about to faint.  “He’s in there, I swear it!  Please, my Lord.  Look, for my sake.”

Ramsay could care less about her or her sake, but he dragged her with him towards the study.  Her sobbing made him feel better, until, of course, he saw she was telling the truth.  His plaything was sitting in _his_ chair, in fine, fancy clothes, writing a fucking letter.

Ramsay let Miranda go.  “Go back to my bedchambers, and don’t try to run.”

All tears and trembling, she fled down the hall, towards his ruined chambers.

He turned back to the Greyjoy, who was sitting rigid and defiant.  Ramsay could tell he was afraid by how he clutched desperately at the armrests, but other than that, the little bitch was doing a good job at pretending.

“You are the stupidest prisoner I have ever had.  At the moment, I don’t care how you’re out, just that you are.”

“Your father ordered me free,” Greyjoy said, managing to sound like a lord.  “He is going to punish you for treating me improperly.  And if you don’t back away from me, it’ll go even worse for you.”

“Oh?”  Ramsay knew his father had been well gone the last time he’d seen his little rat hanging from the cross.

His prisoner’s hands were trembling.  “Yes.”

“And who told you that?”

“That awful creature you call Skinner.”

Ramsay examined Theon’s new clothes, his clean hair, and pleasant scent.   _He’s a lying whore, and I’m going to flay him.  I’ll flay him until he’s happy to suck my cock.  And then I’ll make him wallow in mud, and never let him bathe._ “Did he let you out, too?”

“Yes.  Now _get out of here_.”  The Greyjoy’s eyes were blazing and wide, like he couldn’t figure out if he was terrified or furious.

“Or what, oh great lord?”  Ramsay spread his arms wide, and gave Theon a mock bow.  He still felt rage was boiling inside of him, but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.  Greyjoy was his plaything, and he could beat him and flay him and goddamn fuck him if he wanted.  He could do some of it publicly too, to pretend it had all been a game.

Theon’s chest was heaving.  “Or it’ll go even worse for you.”

Ramsay nodded, tilting his head sideways and taking a step towards Theon.  “Did you enjoy my whore?”

Despite all reason, Theon Greyjoy grinned wide.

 _He’s a dolt,_ Ramsay decided, cheeks flushed.   _I’ve flayed him and he’s still smiling like an idiot.  One day, if I get to keep him, he won’t smile anymore._

“She enjoyed me, too, it seems.”

“ _She_ doesn’t seem too happy about it.”

“I told you to leave,” Theon insisted, sounding petulant.  He stood up, hands curling into fists.

Ramsay frankly didn’t care whether Theon had raped her or she’d fucked him willingly; he’d flay him alive either way.   _But the whole castle knows I can’t control my prisoner, and maybe my whore.  Maybe even Skinner._ Grinding his teeth together, Ramsay yanked his knives from their sheaths with both hands.

“Come on now, my pet.  If you don’t fight, maybe I’ll remember to feed you.”

No longer smirking, Theon opened his hand, and in it was a flaying knife.

 _My box,_ Ramsay remembered, and smiled at Theon without humor.  “Oh, my friend.  I guess you don’t like having nine fingers?  The number a bit too high for your taste?  Well, silly thing, you should have just said so.”

The Greyjoy’s hand was trembling, but he stood firm, undoubtedly planning to make some kind of pathetic stand.  “When your father gets back--”

“Nothing will happen, at least not to me.  And I’m not going to kill you, stupid.” Ramsay rolled his eyes.  “You’re valuable.  And you’re nearly _adorable_ when you cry.  I think you’re going to be doing a lot of that.”

Theon slipped behind the desk as Ramsay spoke, undoubtedly planning to evade and sneak around for as long as possible.

Pursing his lips together, Ramsay headed towards his prisoner; the little shit would be back on his cross and sobbing in an hour.

For awhile, Theon held him off, even parrying him twice.  Ramsay felt himself nearly explode the second time he danced away from him.  But a month of torture had done its work.  Theon was weak and unsteady, a mere shell of the strong “prince of Winterfell.”  Eventually, he tried to bolt for the door.  Ramsay was faster.  He slammed his elbow into the back of Theon’s head, and he crumpled to the floor.

He looked so tempting that Ramsay wanted to crawl on top of him and start slicing him right in the hall.  Instead Ramsay grabbed his stolen flaying knife, stalked down the hall and down the stairs, and found two guards.  He told them to deliver Theon back to the cross, and returned to his room to question Miranda.   _I’ll threaten and hit her.  If she’s telling the truth_ , he thought, _then_ _I’ll fuck her and leave her be._

Several hours later, Ramsay was satiated, but still discontented and unsure about Miranda’s loyalty.  Bored with her, Ramsay was ready to start his revenge.  When he saw Greyjoy back on the cross, head low on his chest, breathing ragged, he felt his cock begin to harden.   _When I get him screaming,_ he thought, _I’ll feel better.  And when he cries, it will be much better than Miranda’s flat tits._

Ramsay ambled towards Theon, who jerked pitifully away from him.  His chest rose and fell fast, then faster, until he looked about to hyperventilate. 

“I’m hurt,” Ramsay lied.   _I’m furious._ “You’re my toy.”   _Well, that’s true._ Leaning close to his prisoner, he ran his hand down Theon’s face and down his neck.  Stopping at Theon’s bobbing Adam’s apple, he fingered it before continuing down Theon’s chest.

Through clenched teeth and pursed lips, Theon whined.  He was staring at some invisible spot past Ramsay’s head.  Ramsay was done with that nonsense.  Clutching Theon’s jaw, he turned Theon’s face towards his own.

“Look at me.”

The insolent bitch stared at the ground instead.

“ _Look.  At.  Me._ If you don’t, I’ll flay off your balls first.  Understand?”

Greyjoy looked at him then, and his eyes were half-lidded; Ramsay had ordered he get no water or food, and it was beginning to show.

“But you see, I like broken toys best.  And since nobody wants you--so _sad_ \--I’m going to make you my very best toy.  Aren’t you happy?  What should I call you?”  Ramsay grinned then, savoring every small hint of fear: the sweat dripping down Theon’s forehead, the way his jaw was trembling, and how he twisted in his bonds.

“Fuck you,” Theon still managed to mumble.  “ _Bastard._ ”

“Your new name can wait.”  Pulling out the knife Theon took, Ramsay held it up, examining it.  “You cleaned this.  And you stole it.  That was _very_ naughty.  It needs to be fixed.  Pick a finger, pet.”

“No.”

“If you don’t pick, I’ll have to take two.”

Drool came out of Theon’s mouth.  “The…”  A small whimper.  “The ring finger.  Next to the one...already gone.

“Good boy.  Much better.”  Ramsay felt his erection growing, urged on by the way Theon curled his fingers tight, like that would make it all stop.  Ramsay heard the sound of Theon’s bladder emptying.  It soaked through his new clothing and splattered the stone floor below.  It was a lovely noise.

“Aw,” he whispered, with fake pity. “Well, time to begin.”


End file.
